


In Time

by autumnalecho



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 21:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20320150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnalecho/pseuds/autumnalecho
Summary: It comes to him then, as Aziraphale moves out of his grasp. There will always be a chasm here, between them, as wide as Heaven. The burden of it presses in around him.





	In Time

The first time it happens is a blur. They are sitting in the Bentley, outside the angel’s bookshop. Worn leather squeaks under the force of the angel’s grip. He is staring at the storefront, hands trembling slightly around the bag of books in his lap.

“Angel?” Crowley's voice is gentle and coaxing.

Aziraphale turns wide, blue eyes to the demon. “Would you like to come inside?” he asks.

So Crowley follows him in. 

They’re sitting across from each other, glasses of brandy in hand. Crowley is burrowed comfortably into the couch while Aziraphale sits rather stiffly in his armchair. The glass looks like it might crack under the gaze the angel is directing down into it. 

Crowley opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong, but he’s barely breathed a word when Aziraphale’s eyes meet his again. In a blink, he finds himself with a lap full of angel, his glass of brandy knocked to the floor. 

Aziraphale kisses him sloppily, inexperienced, but with such a ferocity that Crowley can’t stop the groan that escapes from his own mouth into the angel’s. His coat is being pushed off his shoulders, and hands are roaming up under his shirt, across his chest. Something breaks in him, just a little bit. He had never let himself think about how much he _wanted _this until they were here. 

It’s rushed and needy and so _good_. 

When it's over, Aziraphale is standing with his back to Crowley; the demon is still stretched out on the couch. Crowley watches him straightening and buttoning his vest back into place.

“Should we talk about?” he asks. 

The angel pauses in fidgeting with his collar. He turns and gives Crowley a pointed look. 

“About what?” 

He turns his attention to his cuffs, fussing with the buttons there. 

“Ah,” Crowley grunts, searching for the right thing to say. “Nothing," is what he manages. 

Aziraphale gives a curt nod, then perches on the edge of the armchair seat, back held tight and straight. He gives Crowley another pointed look.

“Right,” Crowley grumbles, clothes appearing around him miraculously as he rises from the couch. He’s slinking toward the exit when Aziraphale’s voice stops him in his tracks.

“It’s best this way. Better to not complicate things.” He's looking at Crowley imploringly. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Crowley says, forcing himself to cast a casual grin at the angel. “You’re right.” 

Aziraphale nods again looking relieved. Crowley sees himself out the front door. 

* * *

Nothing changes after that. They meet in theaters, parks, and concerts. They share an occasional meal. Their Arrangement picks up and carries on like always. Outwardly, Crowley acts as though all is right and normal between them. After all, Aziraphale seems completely unbothered by what happened that night. Crowley has half-convinced himself that it was a mistake and that, really, it _is _better this way.

Then Armaggeddon comes. And then it passes, and the world continues to turn. 

They are walking back to the bookshop from the Ritz, a silence sitting warm and heavy over them. Crowley is unnerved still, from the site of hellfire. From knowing what they came very close to facing. 

“Are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale murmurs, his eyes are soft and open in a way Crowley has never seen the angel before. Except for that one night.

He blinks the thought away. And then he’s seeing fire behind his eyes again. He doesn’t answer.

Aziraphale takes his elbow, gently, and steers him into the bookshop. 

“Come,” he says, “let’s have a drink.”

That rouses Crowley enough to make him snort. “Just had a drink, angel,” he drawls.

“Another one, then,” says Aziraphale, giving him a fond smile.

Aziraphale is leaning over to pour wine into the demon’s empty glass, the light catching in his hair just right, and all sense of up and down goes right out of Crowley’s head. This time, Crowley is the one who kisses him. 

The angel is warm and soft beneath his lips. He presses back into the Crowley for one, two, three beats. Then he pulls back. It comes to Crowley then, as Aziraphale moves out of his grasp. There has always been a chasm here, between them, as wide as Heaven. The burden of it presses in around him. 

“Aziraphale, I —”

“Sorry,” the angel says, eyes turned away, shaking his head slowly. “It’s just too —”

“Fast?” He swallows. Aziraphale looks at him then, nods once. “I understand.” And he does, honestly. It doesn’t take any of the sting out the rejection, but he understands. _ It will be enough_, he thinks, _just to be near him_. 

“I wasn’t ever going to actually leave,” he hears himself say before he can stop the words. “Not without you.” 

Aziraphale steps back into his orbit, presses his palm flat against the demon’s chest. 

“I know,” he sighs. He looks lost. Crowley can see him struggling to dig up the words. 

“It’s okay,” Crowley says, placing his hand gingerly over the angel’s. “It’s okay.”

The look Aziraphale gives him is earnest and trusting. He feels scalded by it. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he says. Then he’s stepping out of Aziraphale’s grasp and slipping quietly out the door. 

* * *

That should have been it, for a long time at least. Later that night, however, the angel comes to him.

No words of explanation, just a soft glow filling the room as he slides in under the covers, tucks himself against the demon’s side. Wet, open-mouthed kisses press down the column of his neck. He wraps the angel up into his arms. He hides the words in whispers against the angel’s skin. Let’s them fall away in the darkness, where Aziraphale does not have to notice them. 

It becomes their pattern. The sun guides them through their daily activities, keeps them a respectful distance apart. The moon brings them back into each other’s arms. In the morning, the angel is always gone. 

* * *

Months pull them farther and farther away from the day the world did not end. Crowley finds himself growing restless in the city. So they take a road trip.

One night, they stop near the coast in South Downs. Crowley is strolling a few paces behind the angel, watching the way the moonlight reflects off his golden curls. 

They come to a stop beneath a boardwalk. The angel is tucking a seashell delicately into his breast pocket. Crowley is leaning against a beam, eyes fixed on the light of the being in front of him.

“Angel,” he hears himself rasp, voice full of emotions he can’t name. 

Aziraphale looks at him. Silence stretches between them for a long time. Wind sweeps through his hair, tossing those golden strands in short bursts of waves. 

“I feel so much for you that sometimes I can't believe its real,” Aziraphale says, moving towards him like Crowley is a beacon. Like he is a lighthouse guiding him home. When he’s close enough, Crowley reaches for him, curls a hand around the angel’s elbow and pulls him in until their chests are pressed to each other, noses brushing. 

“I love you,” Crowley chokes out. He feels strangely brittle. 

Warm hands cup his face, angle his head down. Aziraphale kisses him slow and deep. Crowley absorbs it, let's the strength of it fill him up. When they pull back, the angel's eyes are shiny and wet.

“Okay?” asks Crowley. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathes and falls into him. Crowley rests his head against the angel’s, holds him against his chest tightly. 

“It’s going to take some time for me,” he whispers against Crowley’s shirt collar. “I need just a bit more time.”

“I have time,” says Crowley. 

Aziraphale pulls back just enough to smile up at him. The sight is so lovely it makes Crowley glad his sunglasses are firmly in place so that his eyes can not betray to swell of emotion he is feeling. He leans forward to nuzzle against the angel’s cheek. His efforts are rewarded with a deep, happy sigh. The angel fits himself against Crowley's chest once more.

“Just a bit more time. Don’t give up on me,” Aziraphale whispers fervently, reverently.

“Never,” Crowley breathes, burying a kiss in the angel’s hair.


End file.
